


Dust On My Shoes, Nothing But Teardrops

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-02
Updated: 2006-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 09:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hasn't let Sam touch him since before their father died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust On My Shoes, Nothing But Teardrops

It's still dark when he wakes up, and the room is freezing. Sam rolls onto his side, pulling the pathetic motel comforter up to his neck. The blanket smells like smoke and detergent, the room like soap and gun polish, and on the other bed Dean is lying on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

"Can't sleep?" Dumb question. The clock on the nightstand glows red: 3:52.

Dean grunts wordlessly and doesn't move.

"It's fucking cold in here," Sam says.

And he immediately regrets it; the silence that follows is too loud. Dean doesn't say _get over here and let me warm you up_ in that leering voice that would make a stripper blush. He doesn't say _yeah, right, I've heard that excuse before_ and start cackling at the end because he can't keep a straight face. He doesn't turn to look at Sam, doesn't move a muscle, doesn't say anything at all.

With a sigh, Sam rolls onto his back.

Dean hasn't let Sam touch him since Dad died.

Hand on the shoulder, slap on the leg, smack on the back of the head -- Sam notices every touch, every gesture, feels the warmth and pressure on his skin long after Dean has moved away. But when he tries to turn it around, tries to reach out--

It's like a wall springs up between them, wide and tall and made of steel, and Sam is getting tired of banging his head against it.

The night before they made it to Daniel Elkins's vampire-trashed cabin, they stayed at a Super 8 in Colorado Springs, taking the last room that wasn't claimed by a Focus on the Family conference. There were two beds in the room, and one of them was covered with guns and knives, dirty clothes and scattered notes.

_Dad's notes. Dad's journal. Directions to find Dad's friend._

They shared the other bed, though it was barely big enough to stretch out on. They tumbled onto the rough sheets, still damp from a shared shower, laughing about whether their Bible-thumping neighbors would be more shocked by their hunting or their fucking, whispering and gasping against each other's mouths, hands sliding over wet limbs and hard cocks, teeth tugging at lips and skin.

_So fucking noisy, don't care, let them listen, most excitement they've ever had._

Dean growled low in his throat, half-begging and half-demanding -- _now, god, Sam, now_ \-- and Sam struggled free, twisted around, pushed himself up on his hands and knees, closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around his own dick as Dean dragged his tongue down Sam's spine and along his crack, his hands gripping Sam's hips so hard there would still be bruises two days later. Sam moaned and pleaded as Dean's lube-slicked fingers worked into him, the moans turning to a string of curses as Dean's dick replaced his fingers and he began to thrust, hard and fast and uneven, babbling a string of nonsense words as he pounded into Sam -- _fuck yeah, yeah, so fucking good, Sammy, Jesus fuck so goddamn fucking good--_

That was then.

And this--

_Goddamnit_.

Sam exhales roughly and rolls onto his side again, biting his lip to keep from hissing as his shorts and sheets brush over his hardening dick.

It's so powerful he can scarcely breathe, so familiar yet still such a shock, this desire to crawl out of his own cold bed and slide in beside Dean, wrap himself in Dean's warmth and hold him down and kiss him until he can't protest anymore, until he can't remember his guilt or his grief or his own name, until he forgets everything except for Sam's hands and mouth and skin and being _alive_.

With a sigh, Sam flops onto his back again.

"Jesus, Sam, stop thrashing around and go back to sleep."

Dean will freeze up. He'll go still, cold, bolt like a deer, punch him in the face, storm out in a silent rage and spend hours driving around, find some nameless slut in a bar and fuck her against the bathroom wall until she draws blood from his back with her fingernails. Something, whatever, anything except let Sam touch him. Dean will run and Sam won't stop him. Sam knows it as sure as he's known anything.

"Dean--" His voice sounds strained, rough, and as soon as the word is out he realizes he doesn't know what he means to say. _Give me a sign._ He turns to look at Dean. Flat on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. _Let me in. You did it before -- before._ Dean's blankets are down around his waist, his chest bare, like he doesn't even notice the cold. _Say something that means something._ "You're the one who needs to sleep," Sam finishes lamely. "Have you even--"

"I'm fine."

_You're not fine._

Sam closes his eyes again, tries to ignore how cold his nose is, tries to will away his hard-on. Think of the smell of fresh graves. Think of George Bush naked. Think of that embalmed zombie chick getting it on with her necromancer lover-boy. Think of that time you learned first-hand what embalming fluid tastes like, thanks to an untimely explosion in a surprisingly volatile cursed morgue.

Yeah. That about does the trick.

The clock's red numbers claim that it's 4:37 when Sam realizes that Dean has finally fallen asleep. His breathing is steady and deep, and one hand is resting on his chest, the other sticking out in that careless, ridiculous position that always reminds Sam of a napping cat or little kid.

Sam sits up and watches Dean sleep for a few minutes. He lets himself imagine closing that space between them, sinking into Dean's warmth and inhaling the smell of Ivory soap on his skin, feeling the scrape of stubble on his cheek.

He holds his breath for a moment, grips the side of the bed, and stands up. The mattress springs back with a creak, and Dean mumbles something in his sleep and kicks clumsily, pushing his blankets down even farther.

Sam shakes his head, smiling though his throat is tight and his hands unsteady. In the dark, in the quietest hours of the morning, there isn't much difference between asleep and unconscious, between alone and together, remembering and forgetting, living and dying.

"You'll freeze your ass off, you moron," he whispers. He reaches down to draw Dean's blankets up, tucks them gently under Dean's chin, and lies down on his own bed.

When the sun starts to rise a few hours later, slanting pale and wintry through the motel blinds, Sam throws back his covers and dresses quickly, tugs on his boots and searches for the room key. He pulls open the door and shivers at the sudden cold but doesn't turn back; there's a gas station across the road and a cup of bitter coffee with his name on it.

Soon, he thinks, closing the door quietly behind him, soon he'll stop counting the nights.

But not yet.


End file.
